What Needs to Be Done
by Hekate1308
Summary: Even though he knew it to be a lie, he had to fulfill his best friend's last wish. John Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: This came to me, and I couldn't resist. There will be quite a lot of Reichenbach feels. You have been warned.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Despite the fact that he knew it to be a lie, despite realizing that it was all people like Donavan and Anderson had ever dreamed of, John knew that he had to fulfil his best friend's last wish. And if that meant he was grasping straws so he wouldn't have to deal with what had happened a few weeks ago, so be it.

He didn't know why Sherlock had claimed to be a fake; he didn't know how anyone could have believed the lies about the consulting detective; he didn't know why he, of all people, was the one to be chosen to lie too; but he had to do what Sherlock asked him, because it had been the very last thing he'd ever said to him – almost, at least; the very last thing had just been two words, "Goodbye, John" and he couldn't, wouldn't think about it, wouldn't remember Sherlock standing on the roof, wouldn't remember him falling, wouldn't remember him lying there, for once still, he just _wouldn't_.

It had been three weeks since Sherlock – since he – since he left, two weeks since the funeral, and John knew that, should he think about it, about everything, should he acknowledge what had happened, it would break him.

He knew he was in shock, but he didn't care. Shock was better than the grief he was sure would soon follow, the grief that would sweep everything away, the memories, the consulting detective's life, the grief that would drown John, would paralyze him, would leave him unable to breathe. He definitely preferred being in shock. At least he didn't feel.

But the grief would come, as soon as he started to think about Sherlock jumping, Sherlock dead on the pavement, so he had to think about something else. And because he couldn't think of anything that wasn't related to Sherlock, he thought about his words before he – before.

And Sherlock had told him to tell Lestrade – Greg –, Mrs. Hudson and Molly that he'd been a fake, that he'd invented all the cases. John couldn't believe it, he wouldn't believe it, he would never believe it, but it was the last thing his friend had ever asked him to do. The last thing he could do for Sherlock in this world.  
He decided to forget about "anyone who would listen" because he was Sherlock's doctor and blogger and best friend, and he wouldn't appear on the news or give interviews to papers declaring the consulting detective was a fraud. He wouldn't denounce Sherlock in public.

But he would tell their friends (yes, their friends. There was no reason to use a different word like "acquaintances" because Sherlock hadn't admitted what they meant to him). Because they wouldn't believe it.

Or, at least, he was sure two of them wouldn't believe it. He didn't want to think about the third.

At least, he could tell himself that he was just doing what Sherlock had wanted. He could act like the consulting detective was still pacing up and down in the living room, telling him what to do –

He knew that this denial wasn't healthy, he knew that he should accept what had happened, that he should acknowledge what he'd seen happening, that he should –

It was impossible.

At least for the moment.

He couldn't –

He wouldn't –

Sherlock was –

He'd rather focus on his request to tell Greg and Mrs. Hudson and Molly that he'd been a fake all along.

He started with Mrs. Hudson, because he thought it would be easier to start with their landlady, who'd known Sherlock for a long time, who knew John –

Because he knew, positively knew, that she'd never believe Sherlock had been a fake, not even if you showed her proof. Not that there was any proof.

And she didn't.

In fact, she looked more angry than John had ever seen her – more angry than when Sherlock had shot at her wall, and John suspected she hadn't really been angry then, even though she'd tried to appear so – and answered, slowly, "You don't expect me to believe that my boy invented every crime, do you? Because he ensured that my husband was executed, and I know he didn't invent that case" and then she put the kettle on, apparently not angry with John, but the world, and he didn't know what to say, so he simply accepted the cup of tea she offered him and swallowed the lump in his throat, made out of guilt and gr (not yet, he couldn't grieve yet, it would destroy him)– something else, and she seemed to realize what he was thinking, because she let him sip his tea in silence and hugged him before he returned to their flat.

His flat.

The flat he wasn't sure he would stay in. The grief, despite his best efforts, would come soon, and he wouldn't be able to do anything against it, and there was every possibility that he wouldn't be able to stand it, if he stayed inside their flat – his flat.

Who was he kidding? It would never be his flat. If anything, it had been Sherlock's flat before John moved in and it became their flat.

But it had, and would never be, John's flat.

Not when he was surprised not to find body parts in the fridge, or when the fact that there actually was milk almost made him cry; not when he wasn't woken up in the middle of the night because Sherlock had decided to play his violin or cause an explosion in the kitchen.

Not when he still expected Sherlock to come in at any moment, with his coat and his scarf and...

How could he stay at a place where everything reminded him of his loss?

No. He doesn't want to think about what this word, this big, irreversible, tragic "loss" entails. He'd rather continue doing what Sherlock asked him to do.

Molly was the next on his list, because – he didn't want to think about the because.

He wouldn't be able to put his finger on it, afterwards, when he thought of their meeting in a cafe (he couldn't go to St Bart's, he couldn't. He knew he would just freeze at the exact same spot in front of the building, staring at the roof, hoping, wishing, desperately praying that history could repeat itself and that, this time, he might not be too late), but she seemed different.

She didn't look him in the eyes, instead focusing on his shoulder or someplace above his head, and he tried to tell himself that it was her way of grieving, not being able to shake the thought that there was more behind it than that.

He was growing too suspicious of the world, that was it. He didn't look at people the same way he had two weeks ago, no, one week and three days ago, and he feared that it might stay that way.

Molly didn't even allow him to finish the sentence.

She sprang up from her chair, more angry than John had ever seen her – to be honest, he'd never seen her angry – and glared at him.

"Don't you dare to tell me that Sherlock was a fake, John Watson! I know better"! You know better! We both know better!" And suddenly, there was a strange look in her eyes, something that John couldn't identify and – was that guilt? – but it was gone so quickly that he thought he'd imagined it, and she simply sat down again and started talking of something else, and he was thankful, in a way.

But he still had to tell Greg. As soon as he'd realized that he would fulfil Sherlock's last wish, simply because it had been his best friend's last wish, he'd known that talking to the DI would be difficult.  
John knew Greg wasn't to blame, of course he did. But there was a difference between knowing something and accepting something, and in the dark hours of the night, when he couldn't sleep, he saw the DI arresting Sherlock, again and again.

Of course, Greg had called him, but the consulting detective hadn't run. Knowing Sherlock, that would have been too much to ask. And Greg must have realized that, but nonetheless, he'd hoped Sherlock would be gone.

And yet –

He'd gone to the Chief Superintendent. With Donavan and Anderson. He'd listened to them. He'd belie –

And that was why John had waited, why he'd told Mrs. Hudson and Molly first.

Because he feared that Greg just might believe him.

Because, if he hadn't, not even for a moment, entertained the possibility, would he have gone to his superior?

They hadn't seen each other since the funeral, and even then, they hadn't talked. John hadn't known what to say, and Greg had apparently felt the same.

Now, he was standing in front of the DI's flat, the flat he'd moved in shortly after Sherlock had told him about his wife's affair, and suddenly realized that he didn't know whether Greg was working or not. True, it was Wednesday, but –

All of a sudden, John felt guilty because he didn't know what had happened to Greg after Sherlock had jumped. He hadn't read any newspapers or watched TV since. To be honest, besides meeting Mrs. Hudson and Molly, he hadn't even left the house after the funeral. Greg should be working, but what if –

His suspicions were confirmed when the tired-looking DI opened his door at John's first, admittedly feeble (no, he didn't want to tell him, but he'd decided to do it, so he would), knock.

There were dark circles under Greg's eyes, and he'd obviously been wearing the same shirt for a few days. He hadn't shaved either, and for a moment, John felt satisfied that at least he wasn't the only one suffering. In the next, he felt awful for thinking something like this.

The DI cleared his throat, and the doctor realized that they'd been staring at one another.

Greg smiled weakly. "John. What a surprise. Come in".

John nodded and followed the DI in the flat. It was clean, in fact, it was _too_ clean. John could almost hear Sherlock drawl "Nothing to do except cleaning your flat, Inspector? Suspended, then?" He shook his head, willing the voice to go away, and said, politely, "I hadn't expected you to be at home. I just realized that it's two o' clock in the afternoon when I was standing in front of your door".

Greg shrugged. "I'm suspended until they decide what to do with me".

John nodded, again, because he didn't know what else to do.

Greg looked at the floor. "Do you want something – tea?"

"Yes. Yes, please". John was stalling, but he didn't care.

They were silent while Greg made the tea. John sat down on the sofa when Greg came back, holding two cups.

After Greg had given him his tea, the DI asked, "John... why are you here? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you, but..." he swallowed, and once again, the doctor felt guilty. He should have talked to Greg. Or to anyone, for that matter.

He looked at the mug he was still holding in his hands, realizing that Greg hadn't needed to ask how he took his tea, because they'd gone to get some together often enough, when Sherlock had been busy at St Bart's or looking at the evidence.

"Sherlock... Sherlock asked me to tell you something. Before – before he jumped."

He looked up at Greg, whose face was pale. Maybe he was expecting to hear that Sherlock had blamed him.

"He wanted me to tell you that – that he was a fake. That he'd invented all the crimes."

Greg looked at him like he'd grown two heads. "He wanted you to tell me that?"

"Yes".

"Why would he lie?"

And, just like that, John knew that his worries had been unfounded, and he couldn't help but smile, even as he shook his head.

"I don't know. Maybe to – to – "

"To make it easier for us?" Greg suggested. "Doesn't sound like the Sherlock we know".

"Neither does committing suicide". John said it matter-of-factly, but Greg flinched as if he'd just hit him, and John laid a hand on his arm.

"Greg, I didn't – I'm sorry."

"I know. Me too".

John let go of Greg's arm, and they sat together in silence, drinking their tea, and John could feel the numbness slowly starting to seep away and knew that soon, very soon, the grief would come. But at least –

He looked at Greg, who was staring into his cup as if it held the answer they all were looking for.

At least he wouldn't have to go through it alone.

**Author's note: I want to point out that I don't want to make you depressed.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


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